


I’m Here to Take Care of You

by Bittersweet_in_Boston



Series: I’m Here to Take Care of You [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen, New York City, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Steve Rogers, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-10-04 23:43:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17314010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bittersweet_in_Boston/pseuds/Bittersweet_in_Boston
Summary: You are stress smoking at the end of a difficult (and dangerous?) day at work when a mysterious stranger approaches you and asks for a light. Is he a stranger? He seems familiar somehow...





	I’m Here to Take Care of You

You lean back against the exterior wall of the hotel and take a long, satisfied exhale, watching the smoke drift through the air across the sidewalk. There’s a little alcove in an unused doorway down 51st from the side entrance of The Benjamin that is perfect for a late-evening cigarette - you found it last year during one of your regular trips to New York. You’re not really a smoker, but you keep an emergency pack tucked away in your laptop bag for those extra stressful days in the office. And today certainly qualifies.

As you take another drag you think back to this afternoon’s meeting. It wasn’t a complete disaster, you think. Pierce, the Vice Chairman, made it clear that he didn’t agree with your findings, but he couldn’t pick them apart, no matter how hard he tried. And holy shit, did he try. The two-hour meeting stretched into three, as Pierce cross-questioned you about every bullet point on every PowerPoint slide, made you justify every point of analysis leading to your main conclusion, as your boss the CEO sat fuming next to you, angry on your behalf.

You can’t blame Pierce for losing his shit, though. This deal was his baby, and you told him in five elegant slides just how ugly it was, just how bad it would be for the company. He was bound to be pissed, although his level of upset surprised even Hawley, the CEO, who’s known him for years. She’s never seen him like this, she tells you in a whisper as you walk down the hall to her office after the meeting. He’s usually much cooler headed. You wonder if there was something more personal in his ire than criticism of his pet acquisition would suggest.

Your suspicion is confirmed at the end of the day, just as you’re leaving the office. It’s after 7, and the place is practically deserted when Pierce corners you on the way to the elevator, his giant, bald “assistant” (bodyguard?) glowering behind him. Pierce bends his head close to yours and hisses, “This isn’t over, you know. You thought you won in there today, but you didn’t. I’ll make sure this deal will go through and I’ll make sure you’re the first to get axed when it does.”

You keep your cool as you leave him in the office, but you are more shaken over this encounter than you care to admit. You’re not worried about being fired - you’re the special strategic advisor to the CEO and you know how much Hawley relies on you. And even if you were fired, you know you’d get immediate offers from three other companies.

No, it’s the level of personal animosity Pierce displayed in that hallway, almost as if he hates _you_ , not just your strategic recommendations. Not for the first time, you’re glad you usually work remotely out of Boston instead of here in the main office; for the first time, you wonder if there’s something bigger and more ominous going on, something Hawley hasn’t told you about.

Thus the emergency cigarette, after a drink and a handful of bar snacks in the hotel lounge. You’re staring out through the smoke at nothing, replaying the day’s events over and over in your mind, when a voice separates itself from the background noises of the city and says, “Hey, you got a light?”

***

You startle and look up, refocusing your eyes. A man has appeared in your personal space, seemingly out of nowhere. Where did he come from? you wonder. Was I really so preoccupied that I didn’t notice him coming toward me? You don’t really feel like dealing with anyone and are about to toss him your extra matches and just send him on his way, when you really look at him and reconsider.

Because this guy is gorgeous, over six feet tall with longish dark hair and piercing blue eyes, finely etched features and five days’ worth of stubble. He’s wearing a black leather jacket, tailored white oxford shirt, black jeans, and black ankle boots. The outfit, the hair, and the stubble usually scream RICH NEW YORK DOUCHEBAG to you, but somehow this time, they don’t. Is it the way the jacket is old and scarred and supple and molds perfectly to his body, unlike some hedge fund shithead who bought his brand new from Altuzarra last month? Or is it the way his eyes sparkle happily as they dance over your face, rather than appraising you to see if you’re worth it? Or is it the smile that is strangely self-deprecating, warm, and cocky all at the same time?

You smile back, a real one, not your patented “I have to be polite to yet another asshole” grimace, and say, “Nah, no light, this cigarette just magically lit itself, it was a fucking miracle.” His eyes widen for a fraction of a second, and then his ridiculously charming smile erupts in a sincere (and sincerely attractive) throaty chuckle. You give him a cheeky look, drag your lighter out of your coat pocket, and flick it on, your eyes never once dropping his gaze.

He raises his eyebrows, smoothly puts a cigarette in his mouth, and leans over toward your lighter, gently grabbing your hand to steady the flame. His right hand is bare but his left is gloved. You should be outraged that a perfect stranger is touching you, but instead your belly tightens and you just barely muffle the gasp that spontaneously erupts in your throat. The stranger seems to notice anyway, and as he stands up and lets go you watch his eyes darken and his lips curl lopsided, knowing, around his now-lit cigarette.

You are somehow a little bereft now that he’s stopped touching you, and try to collect yourself and prepare for his imminent departure. But instead of leaving he takes an appreciative drag on his cigarette, exhales, and says, “Tough day, huh?”

“You could say that,” you say, trying to stay calm and keep the OMIGOD HE’S STAYING YESSSSSS thoughts to a minimum. “How’d you know?”

“Well,” he says, gesturing at your outfit while casting a thorough and appreciative stare from your head to your toes (you gulp, discreetly), “it’s 9 at night but you’re still dressed for work. Your expression when I approached you was distant but intense. Replaying something in your head?” You nod ruefully. “And finally...you’re out here smoking.”

“Nice job, Sherlock,” you say, grinning at him. “How do you know I’m not just a regular smoker having their evening butt?”

The corner of his mouth curls up at the word “butt” - like you, he appears to enjoy juvenile puns about body parts - and he replies, “Because you’re enjoying it much too much. Even now you look like that cigarette is the answer to a prayer.” He takes a drag and looks pointedly at you, blowing the smoke in the other direction while edging even closer.

“Yes, well, smoking is my official religion,” you say, trying to keep your heartbeat level. “I worship at the altar of Marlboro, but I only go to church every now and then.” He grins and says, “I knew it,” then gestures to the alcove next to you and asks, “Is there room in that doorway for two?”

You take another drag, exhale, and say, “Sure, but it’s cramped in here. Good thing I didn’t forget my deodorant this morning.” He chuckles, settles in close by, and says, “You smellgreat. Lemon verbena?” You nod, too amazed to be insulted, wondering how he can scent your shampoo and body lotion through the smoke. “Good nose, Poirot,” you say, and lean sideways and give him a companionable shoulder check. Like you’re already best friends. Like you’re...already more than best friends. What the hell is going on here, you wonder. I’m not a super social, unreserved person, especially in the city. Especially with strangers. This is not me. I never do this. Do I know him? He seems familiar somehow.

He smiles that devastating smile again, looks down, and continues. “So...your tough day. What happened?” You exhale, tempted to spill everything to your new best friend, but settle for, “Just a very difficult meeting with a...very difficult man this afternoon.” 

“Oh shit, I’m sorry, sweetheart. I know a lot of very difficult men myself,” he says in response, then brings his cigarette back to his lips, looking at you intently through hooded eyelids. Your eyes widen a bit at “sweetheart” and, blushing, you hurriedly take a drag - your blessed cigarette is almost down to the filter.

“Some men are definitely very difficult,” you respond, sighing. “And others are...much easier.” Again he flashes you the smile that could kill at 20 paces and then, more seriously: “Not to make your life more difficult, but would you be interested in grabbing some dinner? There’s a great seafood place just around the corner and I know you haven’t eaten yet.”

“And how do you know that, detective? Some strange expression on my face? Lack of soup stains on my suit jacket?”

A quick grin. “No strange expressions. It’s a very, very nice face, though. A bit pale and undernourished-looking. That’s why I thought it might appreciate some dinner...”

“...at the Sea Fire Grill, which’ll be packed right now with people waiting at the bar who actually have reservations?” you interrupt, teasing, as you stub your cigarette out on the wall. He has the grace to look abashed, but then says quickly, “The manager is a pal and he owes me a favor.”

“Ah, and you think this face is worth cashing in a favor for?” you say, still teasing. His face turns serious, almost reverential, in a flash. “Yes. Any number of favors.” You’re about to ask him what he means when you knock your hand against the wall and drop your cigarette butt on the ground. This won’t do; New York is dirty enough as it is. You bend down to pick it up and you stand up quickly, too quickly and suddenly you’re in the throes of the mother of all head rushes. Today has all been too much: the meeting, the drink, the lack of food, the cigarette, and your vision blurs and you start to pitch sideways...

...and quick as a wink your new best friend drops his cigarette and catches you, hugging you to him so you don’t hit the pavement. Your head is buried in his jacket and you catch the mingled scents of leather, cigarettes, and something like fresh earth and grass on the first warm day of spring. Is it cologne or is it...him? You don’t really care - it’s the most amazing smell in the world and you’d happily live in it forever.

As he carefully brings you upright, you swear you feel the ghost of a kiss brush your neck just below your ear and a soft voice whispers _I’m_ _here_ _to_ _take_ _care_ _of_ _you_ , _my_ _tender_ _darling_ in Russian. Was that him or are you hallucinating out of hunger and stress? He’s still holding you close and your faces are inches apart. You decide it was him, smile sweetly, and say, “Spasibo bolshoye, moy milii*.”

His pupils flare at your endearment and your linguistic ability and he leans forward and locks his lips onto yours. The kiss starts sweet but within seconds it turns heated and urgent. Your eyelids drift closed and you start to fantasize about all the other amazing things he can do with that beautiful and very talented mouth. It’s not hard to let your imagination run wild, and an unbidden moan escapes your throat.

He smiles against your lips and pulls his beautiful mouth reluctantly away from yours. You are both breathing heavily and you note his wide eyes and a light flush on his cheeks that has nothing to do with the cool October weather. 

“Well, dusha moya**, you are full of surprises,” he murmurs against your cheek. “Shall we go to dinner and continue this...very interesting and enjoyable conversation?”

“Da, konyeshno***,” you answer, desperately trying to recover your cool. You are torn between unbelieving amazement over what’s happened over the past 10 minutes, and overwhelming attraction to this stranger who is yet not really a stranger. Somehow, you decided, you have met him before. You search your intuition for alarm bells and red flags - you’ve had experiences with other men, this isn’t your first rodeo after all - but none appear. You feel safe and, as he just told you in Russian, cared for. It’s comforting. 

He smiles and clasps your hand, leading you down the street toward the restaurant. His gloved hand in yours is somehow less yielding than normal, as if it’s made of metal. Is it metal? Intriguing. You are determined to find out. Eventually. You hear your two sets of heels click on the sidewalk and echo against the hotel wall. “You know, I only have one rule about men who take me to dinner,” you say, looking pointedly at him.

His eyebrows raise and he says, “And what’s that one rule, dorogaya****?” 

“That I know their name.” He smiles and says easily, “I’m James, but my friends call me Bucky.” 

“Why would your friends call you Bucky when you have such a nice name? I think I’ll stick with James,” you say, adding cheekily, “...or maybe...Yasha?” His expression hardens for a split second, and then he says gently, “Let’s stick with James for now,” and then, teasing, “There’s plenty of time to convince you to call me Bucky.” 

“Whatever you say, James. I’m looking forward to that.” And you are looking forward to it - this evening has suddenly and unexpectedly gotten much, much better. And after this evening...? You are already contemplating texting your assistant to have him delay your Acela back to Boston for a day or two. 

Then you add, “And I’m looking forward to some grilled calamari at Sea Fire, I am starving!”

You turn the corner and walk toward the restaurant. You are chatting happily with your new best friend James, and so you don’t notice that Pierce’s giant “assistant” is standing across the street or that James’ face changes and he stares menacingly at the large bald man. And you don’t notice how this man, as gigantic as he is, blanches and turns away, a worried expression on his face.

And you certainly don’t notice that as James follows you through the door into the restaurant, one arm protectively at the small of your back, he quickly pulls out his phone and sends a short text.

**JBB**

All set, now under our protection

**SGR**

Excellent, have a good night, Buck

 

**Author's Note:**

> Russian translations:  
> *Thanks very much, my dear  
> **My soul  
> ***Yes, of course  
> ****Dearest


End file.
